A few weeks ago I wrote a column saying I regret that I know little about my grandchildren and they know little about me.

When we live far apart from family, the bond of love may remain strong in a close family but we don’t really get to know our adult grandchildren. And they don’t get to know us.

I made the mistake of thinking whenever I wanted to know something about family roots all I had to do was call our family matriarch.

My Aunt Theresa kept in touch with relatives living in what we referred to as “the old country.” I thought she would always be a link to my family’s history.

I never realized that all too soon she and the other elders would all be gone and there would be no one to ask.

Worst yet, the old photo books in Aunt Theresa’s attic disappeared after she died.

I’ve always greatly lamented that I know little about my Italian grandparents.

A few years ago I finally got to Squillace, a small mountain village in Calabria, Italy, where my grandparents lived before they came to America. I was stunned when I saw the beautiful aquamarine water of the Gulf of Squillace.

I wondered why my grandmother never mentioned her home village was so beautiful. She never talked about Italy at all.

Part of that was because of a language barrier. I knew very little Italian and she knew rudimentary English.

When the old parish priest in Squillace asked the first name of my grandparents’ parents, I didn’t know.

I never thought to ask.

My granddaughter Emmy just filled in the blank this week by turning up that information in her genealogy research.

Too much of the past was lost because I failed to ask pertinent questions while I had the chance.

My friend Harry Deitz will never have that problem.

Harry recently published an interesting book titled “Our Father’s Journey; a Path out of Poverty.” There were several reasons why I sent for it on Amazon.

First and foremost is the author, Harry J. Deitz Jr. I’ve always had great respect and admiration for Harry, as well as for the subject of his book, his father, Harry J. Deitz Sr.

I worked with both men for several years at the Shamokin News Item and saw they both have great depth of character along with journalistic ability.

Looking back, what strikes me is that I knew little about them on a personal level.

It was through Harry Jr.’s book that I learned how special his father is.

As one of six children, Harry Sr. knew firsthand the meaning of poverty. When his father was seriously injured in a coal mining accident, he and his siblings had to quit school to help support the family.

That’s another reason why I was anxious to read the book. My father had the exact same fate, having to quit school to work in the mines to help feed his family.

Unlike my father, Harry Sr. managed to eventually earn his high school diploma. It was in the service that he learned to be a photographer. He threw himself heart and soul into the job that enabled him to make sure his own family would not go hungry. There were long hours but he was grateful for the work.

Hard work and a grateful heart propelled both Harry Sr. and my own father.

I have often wished my own children and grandchildren would be aware of the harrowing life my father had working in the mines. Even after he witnessed his brother burning to death in a mining accident he stayed. It was what men had to do to support a family.

I am so glad Harry Jr. went through with writing the book. It stands as testimony that with determination, a father can give his family a better life than he had.

I enjoyed the book both on a professional and personal level.

I believe we all have family stories that should be shared. You don’t have to have the writing talent of H.J. Deitz Jr.

You don’t need to know how to use a computer. Write what you know on paper. Don’t worry about how you write.

Just concentrate on telling your family stories before they disappear like leaves in the wind.

When my stepdad needed my help in filling out a job application, it gave me a chance to ask questions about his experiences in the service, his work in the mines and on the railroad.

My sister Cindy said, “How come Dad never told me those stories?”

Easy answer. She never asked.

Ask while you can, while you still have family members around to give answers.

A few folks I know that never wrote a thing are taking a free Saturday morning class where they are encouraged to make a notebook of some kind with family stories.

The instructor says the same thing I told you. Don’t worry about how you write it. Just tell the story.

If you don’t like writing, you can make an audio or video recording. You can simply record questions and answers, if you prefer.

If you want to give a gift with meaning, find a way to pass along family stories.

Contact Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net.